


The Lilac Wood

by wewhofightmonsters



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic, Unicorns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewhofightmonsters/pseuds/wewhofightmonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Darach isn't the only thing out there that's after virgins.</p><p>(or the one in which Stiles accidentally brings home a unicorn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At this point I don't even know anymore. I just really like unicorns, okay? And Stiles. Unicorns and Stiles. 
> 
> Title of this work is taken, appropriately, from the Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle, and I would highly recommend that everyone go and read it right now, because holy WOW it's beautiful.

 

 

_ “The most professional curse ever snarled or croaked or thundered can have no effect on a pure heart.” _

__

_ ~ The Last Unicorn _

__

* * *

_  
_

i.

Predictably, just when it seems Stiles' life couldn't possibly get any worse, a unicorn follows him home. 

 

It’s the morning after Scott, Derek, and Isaac’s little Super-Exclusive-Werewolf-Boyband -Suicide-Mission (as Stiles has taken to calling it) at Beacon Hills High. Surprisingly enough, it hadn’t ended up being a suicide mission after all, although Derek had apparently gotten shredded a little. Uncharitably, Stiles hoped it hurt. 

He’d come home as soon as he’d met up with Scott to make sure everyone was okay. Derek, he could care less about, but Isaac was like a cross between a disney prince and a baby koala, and Scott was all he had left, besides his dad. Stiles would do his _damndest_ to protect both of them.

Derek took care of Boyd and Cora, Isaac went off to do... whatever it was Isaac did in his little cherub world, and Scott and Stiles went home together. Stiles has already gotten a call from his dad (they’d found Emily’s body, he said, and Stiles felt a pang of grief for Caitlyn’s sake) to say he wouldn’t be home until morning, and Stiles doesn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. He communicates this to Scott through their own made up best friend language of eyebrow wriggling, and Scott nods.

When they make it back to Stiles’, a deep exhaustion is settling into his bones, and looking at Scott, Stiles can see he feels it too. They strip quickly and efficiently, Stiles pulling a loose cotton undershirt over his boxers while Scott refrains from wearing a shirt at all (exhibitionist, Stiles thinks, again uncharitably, just because we all don’t have godly, sculpted werewolf bodies), and collapse into bed.

Scott is a passive aggressive cuddler, despite his lengthy protests otherwise, and the minute they’re in bed he worms an arm and a leg over Stiles like a really adorable octopus. This, at least, hasn’t changed much since they were kids, even if lately it seems like everything else has. It started when Scott’s dad left, the need to be close to someone, the need for comfort. And when Stiles’ mother passed away, Scott had appeared at his door that night and held him close without a word.

Sometimes, Stiles thinks as he falls asleep, he doesn’t love anybody in the world as much as he loves Scott.

 

The next morning, Stiles wakes to the highly unpleasant sensation of wetness against his skin, and opens his eyes to see Scott drooling on his arm. Stiles has been shoved over during the night, and is now occupying maybe fifteen percent of his bed’s surface area. Scott, sleeping very peacefully, has spread himself over Stiles’ bed like he owns it.

“You don’t own my bed.” Stiles mutters in defiance as he untangles himself from his best friend and goes downstairs to make toast and take his Adderall. It’s still pretty early, but the sun is up and it looks nice outside, so Stiles swings open the back porch door and figures he’ll go outside for a bit and-

 

There is a unicorn in his backyard.

 

There is a unicorn in his backyard, and it is _sparkling._

 

Stiles makes a very high pitched noise that he will deny later, and the thing lifts its head and looks at him. Stiles takes this moment to beat a very hasty retreat back into his house, because while the stories his mother had told him as a child would lead him to believe unicorns are pure, innocent creatures, he’s never had a reason to do any research on them, and that horn looks worryingly sharp.

“SCOTT.” he shouts instead, because if he has to deal with magical creatures from little kids wet dreams this early in the morning, he refuses to do it alone, “THERE IS A UNICORN IN MY BACKYARD.”

From somewhere upstairs, there is a conspicuous thump, and Stiles waits, impatiently tapping his foot, as Scott makes his groggy way down the stairs, dragging on a pair of jeans as he does so (still no shirt, godammit Scott).

“Whuz’go’inon?” he mumbles as he staggers into the kitchen. Stiles nobly wards off the desire to laugh at the Farrah Fawcett bed-head his best friend is currently sporting. He points out the window to his backyard. Scott looks, looks again, and turns to Stiles slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“There is a unicorn in your backyard.” he says, in a tone of wonder. Stiles sighs.

“Yeah, so, what are we going to do about it?”

Scott knits his eyebrows together in concentration, and adopts what Stiles likes to call his Thinking Face.

“Um, we could, we could, find.... find a girl? Like, unicorns like girls, don’t they?”

Stiles ponders this. “Yeah, but, do we know actually know any girls who are still virgins? I think it has to be a virgin, dude.” Heather’s pale, waxy face flashes briefly through his head, and he pushes the painful image away.

“We could just leave it there?”

“I could be wrong on this, but I think the neighbors might complain.”

“Well, what if we go try to... talk to it or something?”

Stiles looks at his friend in disbelief.

“You want to go talk to the magic horse?”

Scott shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Stiles groans. 

“Okay, okay, but for the record, this is a Very Bad Idea.”

 

They approach the unicorn with extreme caution (because hey, that horn is fucking _sharp_ ), and Stiles tugs on Scott’s belt loop to stop him when they get about ten feet away from it. For a moment, they look at each-other, not sure what to do or even how to go about doing it. Finally, Stiles decides to be, as per usual, the better man, and steps forward.

“Um,” he clears his throat nervously. The unicorn is still staring at him unblinkingly, dark brown eyes very, very old in a way that makes him feel a little dizzy.

“Er,” he tries again, a little louder this time, “hello, majestic beast. I’m Stiles, and this is Scott.” he jerks a thumb back at Scott (who looks like he’s trying not to laugh, the bastard).

“We come in peace, and, uh, we mean no disrespect or anything, but could you maybe consider vacating the premises? You’re very pretty and everything, but also kind of unprecedented in my life right now, and anyway neither of us are young beautiful ladies, so you might want to try somewhere else for that... particular... um, thing. Deal.”

Scott is now making ugly choking noises in an attempt to hold back snorting, and Stiles whirls to jab a finger into his solar plexus and hiss at him.

“You try talking to the fucking _unicorn_ , smartass.”

Scott’s eyes go very wide, and Stiles takes a moment to rejoice in the fact that he apparently can be intimidating after all, before he notices that Scott’s eyes are looking over his shoulder. He gulps, and turns around very slowly. The unicorn is now standing directly behind him, close enough that Stiles can see the shimmer reflected in the silver hairs on its chest- and wow, that’s a little close for comfort.

Stiles may or may not climb Scott like a tree in abject panic, because _holy fucking shit_ that horn is sharp. 

“N-nice horsie.” he says weakly. Scott looks at the unicorn, who is still staring at Stiles with near single-minded attention, and back at Stiles, who is still clinging to him like a baby chimpanzee, and understanding dawns on his face.

“What?” Stiles demands, knowing Scott well enough to know his friend has just stumbled upon a Revelation.

“You,” Scott says slowly, and his voice sounds kind of weird, “are a virgin,”

Stiles levels him with a stare of supreme disapproval.

“Scott, I fail to see what my-”

“Stiles.” Scott cuts him off, “I don’t think that unicorn is looking for a young virgin girl.”

Stiles blinks, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ of surprise. He looks at the unicorn. It nudges his arm with its silky white muzzle.

“Well, shit.” he says flatly.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_“It’s a rare man who is taken for what he truly is.”_

~ The Last Unicorn

* * *

 

ii.

“But why me, Scott?” Stiles whines for the sixth time in less than five minutes. Scott shrugs, sitting on the couch and inhaling a bowl of Captain Crunch (which Stiles has gotten for him because Scott is a helpless infant). They had attempted to leave the unicorn in the backyard, but it followed Stiles to the house like a lost puppy, and stood looking forlornly in the back door until Scott suggested they let it inside.

“Oh no,” Stiles had said, putting his foot down, “we are not bringing the unicorn inside.”

Now, curled on the couch next to Scott eyeing the unicorn standing placidly in his living room, Stiles wonders why no one ever listens to him. They should, they really should, because Stiles is _always_ right. Something his best friend has clearly not managed to figure out after eleven years of friendship.

“Maybe it smelled you, you know, like, smelled you were a virgin and just... I don’t know, followed you home?”

Stiles levels him with a look so flat that Scott actually winces.

“You’re saying the unicorn followed me home.”

The thing gives a warm little nicker from where it’s standing, and Stiles shoots it a glare.

“I did NOT ask for your input, buddy.”

The unicorn has the decency to look ashamed. Stiles wonders briefly if his world has always been this bizarre, or if he’s just getting crazier. He suspects it is the latter.  
“Maybe we should call Derek?” Scott suggests, slurping the milk from the now empty cereal bowl. 

“WHAT?!”

Stiles shoots up so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. The unicorn gives a little snort, and actually manages to sound _worried._  

Stiles crosses his arms haughtily.

“I still don’t want to be your friend.” he declares. The unicorn lowers its head a little, the very picture of heartbreak, and Scott (traitor) makes a sympathetic noise.

“Aw, Stiles, quit being mean to the unicorn, I think it really likes you. And why shouldn’t we call Derek?”

“Because,” Stiles sputters, “because, he’ll laugh at me.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes he will! And anyway, what are we supposed to tell him? Oh, by the way, Stiles has attracted a unicorn, apparently, through his inability to get laid, could you maybe help with that?”

Scott sighs deeply, which is ironic, because if anyone here has a right to be astronomically annoyed, it’s Stiles.

“Can we at least go to Deaton?”

This... is actually a helpful suggestion. Stiles rubs at his temples wearily and nods.

“Okay, but how are we supposed to get the unicorn to wait here?”

Scott is floored.

“We could.... well, we, we could-”

Stiles rolls his eyes, something he has been steadily developing into an art form over the past year, and heads over to determinedly (albeit uncomfortably) stare down the magical creature.

“If I leave, will you follow me?”

The unicorn says nothing. Stiles notes that he probably should have expected this. He takes a deep breath and tries a different tactic.

“Okay, um, I don’t think you can talk, but I do think you can hear me, so. I’m- I’m gonna need you to just, stay. Okay? Stay here. Please.”

He turns to Scott, determined.

“We gotta find out how to get rid of it and get back here before my dad gets home. Let’s go.”

 

 

“There’s a what in your living room?” Deaton asks, deep brown eyes narrowed in shock.

“A unicorn.” Scott and Stiles say in unison. Deaton looks amused. Stiles fights back the urge to scream.

“Look. Can you help us or not.” he says instead, through gritted teeth. Deaton sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t honestly understand how you always seem to be able to get yourself into these sort of predicaments Stiles,” he says, and he sounds almost fond, “but yes. I can help. Come with me.”

He leads them back into the inner sanctuary of the Vet-cave. 

“Tell me Stiles,” he says as he opens a cupboard by the examination table and takes out a small glass sphere, “what do you know about unicorns?”

He gestures for Stiles to sit on the table, and he does so cautiously.

“I don’t know,” Stiles hedges, “I’ve never really found a whole lot of info on them. I know they used to be hunted for the supposed magical properties their horns possessed, and they tend to be drawn to virgin maidens.”

Deaton gives an approving little nod. “Very good.”

Stiles beams.

Deaton hands him the little glass ball, and motions with his other hand for Scott to stand back. Stiles watches in confusion as they move away, and then a sudden heat in the palm of his hand draws his attention. The sphere is glowing, a bright, swirling light at its heart that Stiles is loathe to look away from. It’s beautiful. He can’t explain it, but it is. It stirs some inner part of him, some ancient, long forgotten thing inside of him that roars to the surface now like a diver coming up for air.

The sphere shatters in his hand. He sees Scott jump back in shock, but Deaton simply nods his head, as if he’d known all along this would happen.

“Stiles! Stiles, oh my god, are you okay?”

Scott rushes over with his worried puppy dog face, but Stiles isn’t hurt. None of the glass shards had come even close to cutting him.

“Deaton?” he asks slowly, the great, unnameable _thing_ inside of him slipping back under the cold depths like it had never been there to begin with.

“Well,” Deaton sighs, “I wasn’t wrong about you, Stiles. Though, in this case, I wish I had been. You appear to have a very high level of magical aptitude.”

There is a long pause. A bird is chirping very happily outside the window.

“Do I get a magical girl transformation?” Stiles asks, stunned but resigned, at this point, to his fate.

Deaton blinks.

“A what?”

“You know, like Sailor Moon. Sparkles, mini skirt, thigh high boots- never mind.”

Beside him, Scott makes a very suspicious choking noise, his face flushed. Deaton shakes his head.

“I’m afraid this kind of magic does not come with thigh high boots.”

“No, just unicorns, apparently.” Stiles mutters. “That is why it found me, right?”

Deaton drums his fingers against the examination table.

“Yes. Well, your virginity is the major factor, but your latent gift certainly helped.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Stiles says wildly, “I can’t have a unicorn following me around all the time, I am not a medieval princess!”

Scott makes another noise. Stiles is starting to regret bringing him. Deaton, looking pensive, taps a finger against his chin.

“Have you had any physical contact with the unicorn?”

“Um, no?”

“Good. I would advise against it. It’s likely that the unicorn found you as a response to some subliminal cry for help you have been broadcasting. The alpha pack presents a threat, and with your unique combination of magic and purity, the unicorn would not be able to resist the urge to protect you.”

“Wait,” Stiles says, confused, “It’s here to protect me?”

“In all probability, yes.”

“So why can’t I touch it?”

At this, Deaton frowns.

“As it stands now, the unicorn may yet move on, but if you touch it you will cement the bond it has created with you, and it will not leave your side until whatever it perceives as a threat to you has been eliminated.”

Stiles lets all the breath whoosh out of his lungs in an enormous groan.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Don’t touch the unicorn if you want it to go away.”

“Um, Stiles?” Scott is tapping him on the shoulder, “Isn’t your dad gonna be home soon?”

“Fuck!”

Stiles scrambles off the table and heads for the door, yanking Scott bodily along behind him.

“Stiles.” Deaton calls, and he stops and looks back at the veterinarian. “Now that you are aware of your gift, things will not be easy for you. Consider coming back and letting me teach you.”

“You?” Stiles wrinkles his forehead, “How could you teach me?”

Deaton’s mouth quirks up, a small, mysterious smile that sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“I know a thing or two about magic.”

Stiles considers it for a moment, and then gives him a short nod.

“Okay.”

He rushes out the door with Scott in tow, leaving Deaton standing in the waiting room, his face unreadable.

“Be careful, Stiles,” he mutters to himself, “be very careful.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is thigh high boots is a pretty sexy thought, no? Scott would agree wholeheartedly.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

_ “Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed. It is all part of the fairy tale.” _

_ ~ The Last Unicorn _

* * *

 

 i.

The unicorn is gone by the time they get back to the house. Stiles offers up a prayer of gratitude to the patron saints of Socially Inept Virgin Teenagers, if such patrons saints exist. He glares at the exact spot on the carpet where the offending thing had stood, while Scott stands off to the side.

“So... it’s gone now?” he says, confused. Stiles doesn’t blame him.

“I guess so.” he says, speculating. “Maybe it’s gone for good? Decided I wasn’t worth it? I can totally understand that.”

“Stiles-”

“HA! Good riddance!” he shouts out the window in glee.

“Stiles I don’t think the unicorn can hear you-”

“Who cares? I’m just glad it’s not standing in my living room anymore. All this stress is going to give me premature wrinkles.”

Scott gives him a little grin that may or may not make Stiles’ stomach feel fluttery.

“So you’re saying that dealing with werewolves, a giant murder lizard, and Gerard Argent didn’t phase you, but the unicorn is stressing you out?”

Stiles flinches a little at the mention of Gerard, but manages a weak little chuckle. Honestly, at this point, he’s just glad Scott can still make jokes about all the shit he’s been through. 

Scott’s face softens, and he tugs Stiles down to sit on the couch with him.

“You know I’m sorry for that, right?” he says, and his voice is low, and very sad. “I should have come after you, before anything else.” his eyes trace Stiles' face like he can still see the bruises and cuts that have long since faded.

Stiles offers a smile, but it feels weird on his face, so he lets it slip away.

“It’s okay, Scott.” he says softly, “There are things in this world that are more important than I am.”

Scott looks stricken, but Stiles is up and moving into the kitchen, opening the fridge and puttering around for anything edible.

“I’m making a sandwich. Want one?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Sure,” Scott replies, but he still sounds pained. Stiles frowns to himself. Time to implement his fool-proof Cheer-Up-Sulking-Werewolf strategy.

“Change of plans, Scotty,” he yells cheerfully at the living room, “Come sift flour for me.”

A stunned silence, then Scott comes trudging through the doorway, the guilt in his eyes replaced by puzzlement.

“Why?” he asks, suspicious, as he watches Stiles pull ingredients out of cupboards and slam a mixing bowl down on the counter.

“Because I am making cookies.” Stiles announces, and the goofy grin that breaks out across Scott’s face makes him feel warm down to his toes.

“Dude! You’re the best, your cookies are like crack. Not,” Scott adds hastily, “that I’ve ever had crack.”

Stiles snorts as he measures out sugar and baking soda.

“Don’t worry Scott, of all the people I have to be concerned about becoming addicted to crack, you are not one of them.”

Scott sifts the flour, a contemplating expression on his face.

“Stiles, what Deaton said today, about you having a high magical aptitude? What does that mean?”

“And I was thinking I could use double the chocolate chips,” Stiles says very loudly, pointedly turning his back on his best friend, “because let’s not kid ourselves, there can never be too much chocolate-”

“Stiles.” Scott cuts in, gently, “You’re going to have to talk about it eventually.”

Stiles heaves a giant sigh, and faces Scott.

“I know, Scott. Just, just not tonight. Please?”

They lock gazes for a heavy moment, and then Scott nods. Stiles goes back to measuring out the chocolate chips, content that Scott will leave the matter alone. When he’s not mooning over Allison, Scott can be the most considerate person probably ever.

“Hey, Stiles, I’m done with the flour.”

“Awesome, thanks buddy,” Stiles hums, turning around, “mix it in with the-”

_Whump._

Stiles’ face becomes intimately aquatinted with a lump of flour. Coughing and sputtering, he clears his vision enough to see Scott trying very hard (and failing, of course) to look innocent.

“You- what- flour- AUGH!” Stiles chokes, glaring at Scott and attempting to shake the flour out of his hair. Then he spies the open sack of sugar sitting on the counter. Within arms reach. A grin spreads slowly across his face; the sort of grin that Lucifer might have grinned once upon a time upon convincing a couple of dumbasses to eat his fruit.

Scott is appropriately terrified.

“Stiles? What are you- no, put that down, put that down- STILES!”

 

 

“This is your fault.” Stiles comments, surveying the ruins of his kitchen.

“I’m not the one who decided the eggs were a good idea.” Scott wheezes, out of breath from laughing. From his current position (lying on his back on the now filthy kitchen floor with Scott sprawled out on top of him), Stiles can see a crack in the ceiling that looks like a rabbit.

“There’s a crack on my ceiling that looks like a rabbit.” he announces.

“S’nice.” Scott slurs, his face buried in the crook between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. The oven dings, and Stiles attempts to shove Scott off of him.

“Scott,” he hisses, “Get off! The cookies are done.”

“But you’re warm.” Scott wines. Stiles is unmoved.

“I’m not your personal hot water bottle, and if you don’t let me up,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “the cookies are going to _burn._ ”

Horrified, Scott scrambles off of him. He offers Stiles a hand sheepishly, and Stiles goes to find his oven mitts (the ones his mom used to wear, shaped like mice). The cookies smell amazing, cooling on the rack, but Stiles smacks Scott’s hand away when he reaches for one.

“You are helping me clean this kitchen first, young man.” he says imperiously. Scott is clearly dismayed, but he good-naturedly helps Stiles restore the kitchen to its natural somewhat cleanly state.

“Shouldn’t your dad be home by now?” Scott asks as they clean. Stiles frowns.

“Yeah, he should. I’ll call him.” 

Stiles wipes off his hands, pulls out his cellphone, and dials his dad’s number.

“Hello?” the sheriff's voice is hoarse with exhaustion, and Stiles feels a little pang of worry. 

“Hey, dad, it’s me. Just wondering if you were planning on coming home at all tonight?”

His dad sighs heavily, and Stiles feels his stomach drop a little. He already knows the answer.

“I can’t, Stiles, not tonight. There’s too much work to do here. But, I’ll be home tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

“Kay,” Stiles says, and his voice is very small, “Don’t work yourself too hard, okay dad?”

“I’ll try, Stiles.” his dad replies, wearily, “I’ll try. Night.”

“Night, dad.”

He hangs up and slips the phone back into his pocket. He looks up to see Scott offering him a cookie, a worried expression on his face.

“Thanks.” he says, and he takes the cookie. It’s delicious, of course it is, because Stiles can’t cook worth shit, but he can bake cookies. His mom taught him how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff. Really, really shameless fluff. Also angst, mainly of the Stilinski family kind, because that's my very favorite. Anxiously await the next chapter, in which Scott, Stiles, and Isaac play Uno, and a plot point shows up. Finally.


	4. Chapter 4

 

_“But I must go on," said the Lady Amalthea, "for it is never finished."_

_~ The Last Unicorn_

* * *

 

 

i.

“Dude,” Stiles says, in complete and utter shock, “am I hallucinating? I think I’m hallucinating.”

Derek Hale, looking somehow even more broody and menacing than usual, pinches his lips together in a flat line of displeasure. Derek Hale, in his all-black clothes, with his ridiculous shoulders and his perma-stubble. Standing outside a SuperTarget. At the mall.

“What, are they having a sale on leather jackets today, or something?”

Derek clenches his jaw, and says nothing. Stiles dumps the armful of shopping bags he’s currently toting onto the bench next to him

“Why are you even here? And why are you shopping at _Target_?” Stiles asks curiously, and a pained grimace appears on Derek’s face.

“Isaac.” he says, as if that should explain everything.

“I see.” Stiles says, nodding his head even though he doesn’t have a fucking clue what Derek is talking about.

“Buy me a pretzel?” he asks, a minute later. Derek levels him with a look so dry it could potentially dehydrate half the population of Beacon Hills. Stiles very determinedly ignores it.

“Seriously, we’ve got to start getting along sometime, and I can think of no better way to kick off our very promising friendship than with you buying me food.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to be your friend, and I am not buying you a pretzel.”

Stiles pouts for a moment, then attempts a new strategy.

“I bet _Peter_ would buy me a pretzel,” he wheedles, counting on Derek’s inability to let his uncle one-up him in any way, shape, or form. Derek raises one of his terrifying eyebrows.

“You hate Peter.”

“Yes,” Stiles has him now, “but he would buy me a pretzel.”

 

 

Ten minutes later, when Lydia finally makes her queenly way out of Anthropologie with three new boxes, Stiles is standing next to an increasingly put out Derek, happily munching on a large salted pretzel.

“I would ask what you’ve been doing, but I think I can guess.” she says haughtily, dumping her boxes into Stiles’ arms.

“Derek!” someone calls from behind them, and Stiles turns to see Isaac walking out of the SuperTarget, looking happier than Stiles has seen him in a while.

“Isaac?” Lydia asks, incredulous, “What were you doing at _Target_?”

“Cereal.” Isaac says in response, opening the white grocery bag he’s holding to reveal at least four boxes of...

“Oh, no.” Stiles says in blank horror, “Scott got you addicted to Captain Crunch.”

“I don’t know how it happened, really.” Isaac says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his curly head, “Ready to go, Derek?”

“But why _Target_?” Lydia mutters in bewilderment as Derek and Isaac walk away.

“That has got to be the weirdest encounter of my life.” Stiles agrees, shoving the last bite of pretzel into his mouth and picking up the rest of Lydia’s stuff. 

“Have you ever considered the fact that you may have a shopping addiction?” he huffs as he staggers down the stairs at the malls entrance.

“You’re the one who wanted to come, Stiles.” Lydia replies, rolling her eyes.

 

 

 

ii.

That night, Stiles dreams, or at least, he thinks he does.

“I’m dreaming.” he says, quietly, but the words are swallowed up and lost in the perfect stillness surrounding him. Stiles knows he’s dreaming, he has to be, he has no memory of coming here, to this empty space amid the trees, and the forest around him is silent, too silent, as if all the life in the world has vanished and left him alone.

“Though, for a dream, I’m feeling pretty lucid.” he continues, scuffing one of his bare feet against the dewey grass. The night air is cold, and his breath clouds around him like fine mist when he exhales. 

_Little druid boy._

Stiles falls to his knees. His heart kicks into high gear, terror sending shivers traveling down the length of his spine. 

_Are you afraid?_

There is a cold, alien fondness to the voice, if it is a voice at all. It echoes everywhere, and nowhere, reverberating in Stiles’ head like an echo. He nods, trembling, too frightened to attempt false bravado.

_That is very wise._

“Who are you.” Stiles breathes, more mouthing the words than actually saying them aloud.

_Retribution._

The voice thunders, and Stiles can feel it now, a presence, a great looming shadow; dark against the darker backdrop of the sky and outlined against the frozen expanse of stars. Stiles is suddenly capable of moving, and he scrambles to his feet and runs blindly, crashing through trees and foliage, branches catching at his hair and skin, scraping his face and hands. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even notice the pain, he just runs. Runs to escape the voice.

_I will find you, little druid boy._

Stiles screams, high and shrill, couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, and the darkness around him is alive, it reaches out with ice-cold hands and touches him, wraps around him, forces him to the damp ground and holds him there, thrashing and screaming.

_There is no creature on earth that can run from me._

The terror is suffocating him, he’s dangerously close to having a panic attack, and this is all a dream, it has to be, it can’t be real. But the hands clutching at him feel real, and the fear is a live thing clawing at his chest.

_Watch for me, Annwyl._

“Please-” Stiles sobs, tearing at the grass in an attempt to free himself. Black spots are swimming across his vision, and there is a roaring in his ears. His entire world tilts at the axis.

“HELP ME.” he screams, and there is a high, pure sound like a bell. A gentle light washes over him and chases the darkness away. The last thing Stiles remembers before the brightness carries him into unconsciousness, is an overwhelming sense of peace.

 

 

iii.

Scott corners him during lunch the next day, and drags him off to the empty hallway by the science labs with concern in his warm brown eyes.

“Okay, talk.” he says sternly, arms crossed across his chest. And the thing is, Stiles has become so good, so desperately, painfully good at lying. To everyone, to his teachers, to the police, even to his dad. But he can’t lie to Scott. He could never lie to Scott. And he knows how he looks. There are scratches on his face and arms, a bruise on his cheekbone and two ringing his wrists, and his fingernails are torn and bleeding.

“I- I had a dream...” he tells his best friend, very slowly, “But I don’t think it was a dream at all. And there was a voice...” he shudders despite himself, even the memory of that icy, inhuman echo enough to raise goosebumps on his skin, “and it knew me, Scott. It called me... it called me a druid.”

Scott furrows his eyebrows in confusion. 

“Druid? What’s a druid?”

Stiles lets out a short breath, running a hand harshly through his hair.

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it might be the thing that’s killing virgins.”

Scott puts a hand on his shoulder, and the warm weight finally puts Stiles’ world back into balance.

“Stiles, I think you should talk to Deaton about this.”

“Yeah, maybe.” he mutters.

Scott eyes him levelly for a few seconds, then nods his head like he’s making up his mind.

“Isaac’s coming over tonight. You should come too. I’ll buy pizza?”

Stiles grins, a small, bright thing. Where would he be, without Scott?

“Can we play Uno?”

Scott looks dismayed.

“But you always win when we play that!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Scott old buddy, Uno is a game of chance. There is absolutely no way to rig it.” 

“You do, I don’t know how, but I know you do,” Scott glowers, and then his face turns serious.

“Promise me you’ll go see Deaton?”

Stiles sighs, but he has never been capable of denying Scott anything. It’s his greatest weakness, and his greatest strength.

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

 

Looking at it realistically, it’s painfully easy to see that Stiles Stilinski is in love with Scott McCall. For Stiles, there is nobody else. There never has been.

 

iv. 

“It called you a druid?” Deaton asks, and there is something in his voice that tells Stiles he should be very, very concerned.

“Yeah, and Deaton, I did some research-” he swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away, “and the murders, the Threefold Death, is it... is a druid doing this?”

Deaton sighs, and somehow manages to convey the weight of the world along with it.

“Do you know what the word Darach means, Stiles?” he questions.

“Dark Oak.” Stiles replies automatically, then frowns. “An evil druid?”

Deaton turns away from Stiles, and there is a defeat in the slump of his broad shoulders that Stiles has never before seen the man display.

“If this... Darach is attempting to communicate with you, Stiles, it means you are connected. Connected by blood.”

“I’m a druid too, aren’t I?” Stiles replies quietly. Deaton nods.

“And likely a very powerful one. Powerful enough, I hope,” he continues, crossing to the same cabinet he’d pulled the orb from and rummaging around inside, “to shield yourself from prying eyes, even unconsciously. But in the event that I am wrong, take this.”

He straightens up and holds out a crude amulet, a rough circle of hemp with an iron pendant dangling from it. 

“And this does what, exactly?” Stiles prompts.

“The Darach knows you exist. It doesn’t necessarily know who you are. This necklace will keep it from sensing you.”

Stiles lets out a breath it seems like he’s been holding since he woke up this morning.

“So I’m safe?” he says hopefully, tying the ends of the amulet together behind his neck.

“In a way. But, Stiles, the amulet can’t protect you forever. And now that you’ve revealed yourself, the Darach will be looking for you. The druids are rare, it will not be able to resist the lure of one of its own.”

“That’s what it said,” Stiles confesses, not looking at Deaton, “ _watch for me_. Like it was only a matter of time. And it called me-” he hesitates, the strange word sticking in his throat.

“What did it call you, Stiles?” Deaton asks, carefully.

“Annwyl. It called me Annwyl.” 

Deaton’s eyes widen in shock, and Stiles feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“Deaton? What does it mean?”

“Beloved.” Deaton says, and his voice is frighteningly blank, “It means beloved.”

 

 v.

“The crazy whirligig of fun has arrived, gentlemen, fret no more!” Stiles announces as he shoulders his way into Scott’s house. Isaac looks up from his position sprawled on his stomach on the living room carpet, and frowns.

“Crazy... whirligig of fun?” he says, confused in a small, fuzzy woodland creature way.

“Okay, so that was a potential exaggeration. I can promise you fun. Crazy whirligig might be a little beyond my capabilities.”

“Where’s Scott, anyhow?” Stiles continues as he collapses on the floor next to Isaac.

“Upstairs looking for Uno.” 

A wicked smile stretches across Stiles’ face.

“I hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked!” he shouts up the stairs.

 

Twenty minutes later, he has never regretted anything more in his seventeen years of existence.

“How are you doing this?” he whines in dismay as Isaac changes the color to blue yet again, and deposits four more cards in the pile. Isaac shrugs.

“Me and my brother used to play this all the time when we were kids. I got really good.”

Scott gives Stiles a maddeningly smug look, as if to say “See? I told you you could rig it.”

“Shut up.” Stiles growls at his best friend.

“I didn’t say any-”

“Yes, you did.” 

Isaac hits Scott with a draw four a few seconds later, and Stiles feels a surge of vindictive triumph. Uno turns into go fish, which turns into a rousing three-way game of war, in which Stiles proceeds to calmly wipe the floor with his opponents. It’s getting late, and at some point Stiles finds himself snuggled up against Scott’s side in the armchair, Isaac having claimed the couch as his own and promptly fallen asleep on it.

“Remember that book my mom used to read us when we were kids?” Stiles says idly, plucking at a loose string on his red hoodie with nimble fingers.

“Huh? Which one?” 

“The one about the tree who fell in love with a boy.”

Scott’s face brightens a little.

“Oh, yeah, I remember that. That was our favorite book. Didn’t you have the whole thing memorized?”

“Mmm-hm.” Stiles hums. He neglects to mention that he still does.

“That book always made me feel kinda funny inside,” Scott continues, “you know? The tree gave up everything for the boy, and he never gave her anything back."

"Maybe she never needed anything back." Stiles says, and something about the way he says it makes Scott feel like an intruder. "Maybe just loving the boy was enough."  


 

 

vi.

“Dad?” Stiles calls, tossing his keys on the kitchen table as he comes through the garage door.

“Sorry I’m back late, I was at Scott’s and we started playing Uno, you know how that usually turns-”

Stiles rounds the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stops.

And stops.

And stops.

Because that’s his dad, lying crumpled on the floor, a busted gallon of milk leaking next to his limp hand. That’s his dad, who isn’t moving.  He isn’t moving.

“Dad.” Stiles says, and there is something roaring in his ears, the dull ache in his knees barely registering as he throws himself to the ground next to the prone form and feels for the pulse on his dad’s neck.

He can’t, he can’t feel. He can’t feel. Anything.

“Dad.” Stiles says again, cracked and broken, and some small, precious thing inside him splinters. Stiles pulls out his cell phone in a frenzy, and dials the police department because he knows they’ll get here faster than any ambulance could.

“Dad, my dad,” he manages to choke into the phone, and then the pain hits with the force of a semi. Stiles collapses in on himself, laying his head on his father’s chest and listening for a heartbeat, feeling his airways constrict as breathing becomes harder and harder.

Scott.

The thought comes to him like a lifeline. Scott. He has to call Scott.

 

By the time the police show up, Stiles isn’t sure how lucid he is. He thinks maybe they pry him from his father’s body. He doesn’t struggle as he’s led out to a police car, and they carry his dad away.

“You want us to take you to the hospital?” Sharon, one of his dad’s deputies, asks him. Stiles shakes his head, feeling very cold, and very numb.

“Gonna wait for Scott,” he mumbles, and-

“Stiles!” Scott is here, pushing through the chaos and crouching down in front of where Stiles is huddled.

“Scott,” Stiles breathes, and there is endless, telling relief in the sigh. He drops his face into his hands, feels the wetness on his cheeks, and is shocked to find that he’s crying. 

“Scott... if my dad, I don’t think I can-”

Scott hugs him, warm and familiar and so gentle, and Stiles lets himself go limp, lets his head rest on his best friend’s shoulder, and wonders dimly when he started to associate Scott with safety.

 

“I guess I forgot, you know?” he tells Scott, his voice still eerily reminiscent of broken glass. They’re sitting in the hospital waiting room, holding hands. His dad is still in critical condition, has been all night. Melissa had stopped in a few times to make sure they ate something, but for the most part they’d been left alone, and Stiles is glad of that, as much as he can be glad about anything right now.

Scott’s hand is warm in his, anchoring him to the ground. Without it, Stiles would drift up into the stars and dissipate like mist.

“You forgot what, Stiles?” Scott’s voice is very soft.

“I’ve been so busy running around fighting crazy alpha werewolves and ancient evil tree people, I forgot there are other things that kill people. Normal things.” his voice wavers a little, “Like heart attacks.”

Scott says nothing, just squeezes his hand even harder.

“I mean,” and Stiles is verging on hysteria now, “it kinda seems like the universe hates me, Scott. Werewolves and kanimas and druids, oh my.” he gives a manic little giggle, “And now my dad. As if the unicorn wasn’t bad en-”

Oh.

Oh.

There it is. There’s the answer.

“Scott,” he says, determined, “I gotta go find the unicorn.”

“What?! Why?”

“Because,” Stiles explains, eager, hope sending his words tripping and stumbling out of his mouth, “Unicorns were hunted in the dark ages for one reason, Scott. The magical qualities their horns possessed. One of those qualities being _incredible healing properties_.”

Scott knits his eyebrows together.

“How are you going to get the horn?”

“I am going to ask it nicely.” Stiles says, grimly.

“Didn’t Deaton tell you not to-”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles cuts his best friend off, something bitter in his eyes, “we all know how good I am at following orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

_ “We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream.”  _

__

~The Last Unicorn

* * *

i.

“Hello?” Stiles shouts, stumbling cautiously through the dark woods. The sun is just starting to peek up over the horizon, but it’s not really enough light to see by yet.

“Um. Unicorn? It’s me, Stiles? Your favorite person in the whole world, remember? We kind of have a problem, well, I have a problem, so could you maybe come out?”

From where he is trailing along behind Stiles, Scott makes a disbelieving little noise.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” he mutters, rubbing at the goosebumps on his bare arms and shivering a little. Stiles, whom Scott had given his jacket too the moment he noticed how blue his lips were, feels a pang of guilt.

“Any day now, unicorn,” he calls again, and the pleading note that creeps into his voice is not entirely unintentional. Nothing. No crickets chirping, no early morning birds. The forest is quieter than Stiles has ever heard it. The frustration churns inside of his stomach and buzzes behind his eyes; he clenches his fists so tightly the nails bite into his palms, and he hisses a little at the pain.

“Stiles,” Scott says, gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think-”

“My dad could be DYING, Scott!” Stiles screams, anger hitting a boiling point, “My dad could be dying and there is nothing I can do except stand here and wait for a _fucking unicorn_ to show up and save the fucking day.”

Scott’s face falls, and Stiles’ rage cools.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sinking down on the dirt and pressing his forehead against his knees.

Scott doesn’t say anything, but he sits down next to him on the grass, and Stiles is grateful for the quiet show of solidarity.

“I thought you came to help me.” he whispers, just in case maybe the unicorn can hear him somewhere, somehow. “So help me. _Help me._ ”

There is a clear, pure noise, like the most perfect note of music Stiles has ever heard, and the unicorn is there. It lopes out of the trees, rising sun catching on the white coat and creating a halo of light around the creature as it approaches.

He scrambles to his feet, Scott following, but when Stiles takes a step forward his best friend catches his arm.

“Stiles, wait. Remember what Deaton said?”

Stiles looks Scott in the eyes, dark brown meeting light.

“I don’t care. It’s my dad, Scott. I’ll do anything.” 

He shakes off Scott’s arm, and goes to meet the unicorn. He stops about three feet away, and shivers a little as it regards him with wise, dark eyes.

“You came,” he says, more a breath than anything voiced, “I asked for your help, and you came.”

The unicorn inclines its head. Stiles takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and closes the gap between them until he can make out the fine silver hairs glinting on its neck. He reaches out a hand, slowly, hesitantly, afraid that the unicorn will snap at any moment and run him through. Instead, when his fingers freeze halfway to the unicorn’s nose, it pushes forward and nuzzles into his touch.

Stiles hears the noise again, and the world goes white in front of him. There is a door in his mind, a door that he hadn’t even known was there, a door that had once been bolted shut but was now ripped wide open. Images flash by him too quickly for him to process, projected against the mind in vivid detail. Hunters, dogs, the panic of a chase, blood dripping from a wound in his leg, staining his white coat red. He stands over a fallen body, protecting it to the last, the men surround him; he runs one of them through with his horn but they have spears, they pin him down and there is pain-

_Genim._

The voice is nothing like the one from his nightmare. It isn’t painful, it doesn’t invade. 

_Hello, Genim._

Stiles opens his eyes (when did he shut them?), and the unicorn is there, so close he can feel soft breathing on his face. 

“Stiles,” Scott says from a little ways behind him, and his voice is strange, “you’re crying.”

Stiles touches his fingers to his face, and they come away wet.

_Do not cry, Genim. I am here now. I am here._

Stiles doesn’t even hesitate. He throws his arms around the unicorn’s neck, and presses his face against its coat.

“I’m sorry.” he mutters, “You’re beautiful. I’m so sorry.”

_My name is Lear,_ the unicorn replies, _why have you called to me?_

“My dad is sick,” Stiles explains, pulling back and wiping his eyes with his (Scott’s) sleeve. “He’s- he might be dying. I heard, I read unicorns can heal. Could you make my dad better? Please. I can’t- I can’t lose him.”

_For you, Genim? Anything._

Lear bends his graceful head, and touches his horn (his very, very sharp horn holyshit, Stiles’ brain supplies from a musty corner) to Stiles’ chest, just above his heart.

_I give you my power, that you may give it to another._

His skin thrums. Something tingles along his veins and lights his body on fire, and then Lear pulls away, and Stiles falls to his knees.

“What did you do to me?” he whispers.

_Go to your father, Genim._ Lear replies, and he is gone.

 

ii. 

They probably break about a hundred different speed records on the way back to the hospital, and Scott has to practically carry Stiles up the stairs when they get there; his knees still wobbly and weak from whatever it was the unicorn did to him. They reach his dad’s room in a tangle of limbs, and Stiles scrambles inside to collapse in the hard plastic chair next to the bed.

“Dad.” he whispers, taking the limp hand in his. His dad’s face is pale, and he looks thin and impossibly tired; dark circles under his eyes and deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, like a map documenting all the suffering he’s ever experienced in explicit detail.

“What am I supposed to do?” he half wails to Scott, “He didn’t give me a how-to-do manual; I’m not completely sure he gave me anything at all!”

“It’s a he?” Scott mutters to himself, but Stiles isn’t really listening, because his skin has just decided to become art.

“Scott?” he interrupts, slowly, “I’m glowing,”

And he is. Scott’s mouth falls open as white hot runes twist and twine themselves up Stiles’ arms like living ink. Like a tattoo. The monster rears its head up out of the lake inside him and roars _._ Stiles can feel the symbols spreading down his back and legs, creeping up his neck and reaching out across his face, burning as they go until there is nothing left of him anymore, only the fire.

“Scott-” he gasps, but the pain chokes him off. He looks up at his best friend in panic, and Scott’s eyes widen. He takes a few steps back.

“Stiles, your eyes. Your eyes...” 

There is a mirror hanging on the wall above the little sink, but Stiles won’t look. He can’t. It’s apparent, now, what Lear had done to him. What the unicorn had meant for him to do. Stiles lurches forward, his lungs singed inside him, and presses his glowing hands to his father’s chest.

_Please. Please._

His hands glow bright for a moment, too bright to look at directly, and then the light is gone; the runes drained from his skin, the heat cooled. The monster sinks back down to the murky depths and slumbers once again. Stiles blinks a few times, turns to Scott, and smiles distantly.

“You wanna come catch me, old buddy old pal? Because I don’t think I can stan-”

When his legs give out with his voice, and he crumples towards the ground, Scott is there to catch him. Scott will always be there to catch him. And oh, hello, _biceps_ , Stiles appreciates, his brain a little woozy.

“Yo’ have a lotta muscles. Lotta muscles.” he slurs, patting Scott’s arm. His friend’s chest shakes with laughter.

“Thanks, Stiles.”

His dad wakes up less than a day later. 

 

 

iii. 

“I need you to teach me how to shoot.”

Allison freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. She blinks. 

“Sorry?”

Stiles, sitting across from her with a determined expression on his face, repeats himself.

“I need you to teach me how to shoot.”

Allison sets her fork down slowly.

“Yes, but. Why?”

Stiles’ burst of confidence runs out at exactly that moment, and he fidgets on the uncomfortable bench of the cafeteria table.

“I just-” his voice is very thin. He swallows and tries again. “I just don’t want to feel helpless anymore. I’m the research guy, go-to Google Whiz in chief, but when it comes to fighting? To actually protecting the people I care about? I can’t do anything.”

Stiles meets Allison’s eyes, and she recognizes the look in them. She’s worn it herself.

“So. You don’t want to be helpless anymore.” she leans forward and smiles a secret smile. “I might know a little something about that.”

 

“Draw back in one motion. Like this.” she demonstrates, pulling her arm back and notching the arrow like it’s easier than breathing. For her, Stiles thinks, it probably is.

“Keep your arm slightly bent so the string doesn’t hit it, that’s important. Do you draw with your right hand or left?”

“Um, right?”

“Okay, when you draw back, make sure your right hand is just above your cheekbone, almost touching.”

She hands him the bow, a hell of a lot less hardcore than the ones she typically uses, but Stiles is grateful she’s starting him off easy.

“Hold the arrow between your fingers like this-” she positions his arms and fingers until he feels like an oversized doll, and than steps back and nods in approval.

“Good. You aren’t bad, for a beginner. You have nice form. Now practice drawing, as many times as you need to get the feel of it.”

Stiles nods, and repeats the motion over and over until his arm muscles are sore. 

“How do you make this look so easy?” he pants as he draws the bow back again, his hands trembling a little. Allison casually flexes her arms.

“Okay, new question,” Stiles grunts, wrestling the string back, “why am I constantly surrounded by muscles?”

Allison just laughs and hands him an arrow.

“It’s a practice arrow. Blunted,” she adds, when she notices him eyeing it dubiously, “so don’t worry. I think you’re ready to try the real thing.”

Stiles feels warm and fuzzy, in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes he really loves Allison.

“Thanks.” he says suddenly, beaming at her. The corners of her eyes crinkle a little in amusement, and she lifts an eyebrow.

“What for?”

“For helping me. We regular, non-supernatural human beings have to stick together, after all.”

“Just shoot, Stiles,” Allison says, but there’s fondness in her voice.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and notches the arrow like Allison showed him. He pulls back his arm (which is still shaking, but he’s trying hard not to be too embarrassed about that), the palm of his hand near his cheek, and sights. The target Allison has set up, a board leaned up against a tree, suddenly seems impossibly tiny.

“There’s no way I can hit that,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to keep the arrow in place and aim at the same time. 

“No,” Allison says, shaking her dark head, “but that’s the point. That’s how you learn.”

“Oooookay,” Stiles mutters, steadying his arm and exhaling slowly. He aims with as much precision as his unfortunate hand/eye coordination will allow. There is a period of stillness that stretches out around him like heartbeats, and in the quiet, something stirs. The deep, cold lake inside him has been disturbed, and the monster wakes. Stiles fires.

The arrow misses the target completely, misses hitting anything, in fact, just shoots into the air and arches, impossibly high and far, into the woods. Stiles drops his bow, gaping, and turns to Allison.

“Should I be able to do that?” he demands, a horrible suspicion tugging at him. She shakes her head in shock.

“Okay. Well, then. We have to go find that arrow.”

And he charges off into the woods, heedless of Allison calling his name in confusion. He scans the trees around him for the arrow, but the monster inside him rumbles and he keeps going, a little farther, and a little farther still, until he comes to a space where the trees have stopped, suddenly, around a little clearing, as if some invisible god had held out a giant hand and forbade them from growing any closer. 

In the middle of the clearing, a single tree; tall and twisted and stately, and lodged in the bark, his arrow. He hears footsteps behind him, and Allison bursts into the clearing and stops, panting a little.

“It’s okay, Stiles, we have more arrows, you don’t have to-” she trails off when she notices the tree, and frowns.

“How the hell did you shoot this far?”

“I- don’t know...” Stiles says, and he approaches the tree and places a hand on its trunk. The bark feels warm, like the tree is alive somehow.

“That’s a yew tree.” Allison says casually, coming to stand next to him, “I tried to eat the berries once when I was a kid, and had to get my stomach pumped.”

“The tree that brings life, and death.”  Stiles whispers, and the monster inside him purrs in satisfaction. He yanks the arrow out of the tree with a grunt, and stares down at it.

“Allison,” he says quietly, “I’m going to need your help again.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm going somewhere with this. Also, if anyone knows where I can pick up some quality plot points, I am willing to trade up to five goats. That is a fantastic price people, do not let me down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, so, it's been awhile. Sorry. But anyways, here's this, the plot is kicking into high gear at this point, so don't expect it to follow canon at all because wow will you be dissapointed.

 

 

 

 

_“Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”_

_~ The Last Unicorn_

* * *

i.

Stiles takes a deep, calming breath, and draws. Sights. Fires. Misses by an almost painful amount.

“Allison!” he wails, dropping his bow in a fit of despair, “I am never going to be good at this!”

Allison sighs, picks the bow up off the dirt and carefully avoids looking at him.

“You _will_ learn, Stiles, you just need more time.”

“I don’t have time,” Stiles explodes, “Everything is closing in over my head, I feel like I can’t even breathe anymore. I keep having these nightmares, an evil druid may or may not be out for my head, a unicorn is stalking me, my dad just got out of the hospital- I’m loosing my mind, Allison! I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”

Allison gives him a considering look, and than drops down to sit cross-legged on the ground, pulling him down next to her.

“First,” she says, seemingly unruffled by his temper tantrum, “You’re not loosing your mind. Second- well, how about I tell you a story?

Stiles frowns a little. “What kind of story?”

Allison strokes the bow in her hands with something like love.

“An important one, I promise.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Story-time with Allison. Has a nice ring. Sure, go for it.”

Allison grins at him, looking so pretty in that moment that Stiles thinks he gets it, now, why Scott loves her.

“My Aunt used to tell me this story.”

“The crazy one?” Stiles asks, lying back on the porch and pillowing his head in his arms.

Allison shrugs, a little sheepish. “The crazy one.” she lies back on the porch next to him, and starts to talk.

“The Norse gods were a lot like their chief worshipers, the Vikings. Powerful, unpredictable, and dangerous. Baldur, son of Frigga and Odin, was none of these things. He was peaceful. Baldur dreamed of his own death, and so his mother Frigga set out to command every creature, object, and person in every realm to take an oath never to harm Baldur.”

“Mothers.” Stiles mumbles, and Allison elbows him to shut him up.

“Frigga forgot one thing, only one. She forgot to ask Mistletoe. Just a tiny, insignificant plant, it couldn’t have seemed important to her. Loki, the trickster god, fashioned a dart from the mistletoe’s wood, and struck Baldur with it, and Baldur died.”

Allison goes quiet. Stiles blinks.

“Wait- that’s it? He dies, the end? Do you always tell such happy stories?”

She hands him the bow, and he holds it in his lap and stares down at it.

“The point is, Stiles, Frigga forgot the mistletoe because it seemed small and insignificant to her. But you know how valuable it is, and so do I. Your ability to shoot an arrow doesn't determine your value. You do that all on your own.”

 

ii. 

“I brought Sour Patch Kids!” Stiles hollers as he shoulders his way through Scott’s front door with an armload of junk food. “Also Nerds, even though you hate them, and Pixi Stix.”

Scott thumps down the stairs with outrage written on every inch of his face.

“I thought I forbade those after last time!”

Stiles laughs and dumps the snacks down on the kitchen counter.      

“Oh, come on Mr. Grumpy, they’re my favorite candy. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

“You knocked the refrigerator over.”

“Well. Yeah.”

Scott rolls his eyes in fond exasperation, snatches up the bag of Sour Patch Kids, and leads the way up to his bedroom. In the hallway they encounter Melissa, dressed in scrubs and heading out to her shift.

“Pixi Stix, Stiles?” she says dubiously, eyeing the package in his hand.

“That was one time, oh my god!” he exclaims, “Will no one ever let me live it down?”

“You tied your stuffed animals to the ceiling fan and had a public hanging.”

“I was nine!”

Melissa just laughs, running her hand through his hair in a way that reminds him, dimly, of another hand stroking his hair, in another time.

“You boys have fun. Don’t burn the house down, blah blah blah, and I’m done momming. Lock the front door behind me,” she calls as she heads down the stairs. Stiles turns to Scott, his eyes shining.

“And now I think it’s time for me to kick your ass at Mario-Kart.”

Scott grins, a grin so evil that Stiles actually quails a little. “Not if I choose the Rainbow Road.”

And he races down the hallway to his room, laughing madly, leaving Stiles standing aghast.

“You... you wouldn’t. Not the- anything but the- Scott? SCOTT?”

 

 iii.

Stiles dreams. Part of him is distantly aware that he’s in Scott’s bed, smushed up against the wall with his best friend’s foot in his face, but the dream is so vivid and bright that that part is hard to hold on to. There is a girl in his dreams, a girl Stiles has never seen before, who still somehow manages to feel as familiar to him as family. She has a tangle of deep red hair and eyes that are sometimes green, sometimes blue, and she is standing in a long hall, with a thatched ceiling and a stone floor. At the end of the hall, there is a dais with a golden throne, and a man with gray streaks in his rust colored hair sits atop it.

The girl kneels before the throne, dipping her head down to touch the floor.

“Father,” she says, in a language that Stiles has never heard in his life, but understands perfectly, “You are ill. You must not send your sons to war with the Britons, they will be killed. The lady queen-”

“Silence!” the old man roars, cutting her off, and the girl trembles. “Do not speak of what you do not understand, Etain. My sons will fight as men, not as cowering dogs.”

“My lord,” the girl, Etain, tries again, her voice wavering, “Your sons cannot win this fight. I have foreseen it!”

“Ah, yes,” the old king’s voice is dangerously low, “my wife has told me of this sorcerer's gift you posses. Do not seek to beguile me, child. Your brothers will go to battle. Leave my sight.”

Etain rises shakily to her feet, gives her father a shallow curtsey, and all but flees from the throne room. Stiles follows her out the doors, across a stone courtyard, and out under a huge gate into a great wood. Even in the dream, Stiles feels goosebumps prickle on his skin; this forest is ancient, and full of magic. Etain navigates the forest with the surety of someone who has done it all their life, and breaks into a little glen with a stream running through it. Six boys are waiting for her there with anxious faces, and when they see her they swarm around her at once, firing off questions.

“Etain! You’ve returned!”

“What news from father, will he have us fight?”

“Have you convinced him, sister?”

Etain shakes her head, tear tracks on her dusty cheeks.

“No, brothers. The queen has poisoned his mind. I am sure, now, that the lady is not who she claims to be. Our father says you must fight, and nothing I could say would convince him otherwise.”

There is a terrible silence. The youngest boy, who can be no more than ten or eleven, bursts into tears, and Etain takes him into her arms.

“Do not cry, Seoras, brave heart,” she murmurs, stroking his hair, “We will flee, if we must. Uncle’s keep is to the west, perhaps he would shelter us there from father’s madness.”

“What of your visions, sister?” one of the older boys asks hopefully, pushing a shock of dark hair away from his gray eyes, “Have you seen the future in your dreams again?”

“Nay, Aedus. My visions are shrouded in mist as of late, as if someone is...”

Etain trails off, her green eyes widening in realization.

“As if someone has clouded your Sight.” a woman’s voice rings out, and the dream shudders around Stiles. He knows that voice. Etain and her brothers do as well, and they turn slowly with fear painted across their faces.

“My lady queen.” the eldest brother chokes, his throat working.

“Always so polite, Bran.” says the woman, amused. Stiles tries to see the source, tries to catch a glimpse of what Etain and her brothers are so afraid of, but there is only a great darkness, hovering at the edge of the trees.

“And yet, I am afraid I cannot let you escape, not now that you know me for what I am.” the darkness thickens, expands outward, and Etain puts herself in front of her brothers with a cry.

“You need not worry, Etain,” says the woman, sounding almost bored, “You pose no threat, I will not harm you. Your brothers, on the other hand...” 

The darkness moves like a lightning strike, shoving Etain to the ground and engulfing her brothers.

“NO!” she screams, trying to struggle to her feet, “PLEASE DON’T!”

“Etain!” the littlest boy, Seoras, cries from inside the cloud of shadow, “Help us, Etain!

Etain moans, clawing the ground in furrows and weeping. Stiles turns to the darkness at the edge of the trees and sees something inside it, the outline of a figure, of three figures, of a monster, a wolf, a crow. Blood red eyes meet his own, and he _burns_.

_Little druid boy._

 

 iv.

“Stiles. Stilessssss. Stiles!”

 And with absolutely no warning whatsoever, 160 pounds of sweaty werewolf descends on him from above.

“M’gonna murder you.” he hisses, his voice a dying croak, as he makes a futile attempt to dislodge his best friend.

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to.” is Scott’s ridiculously cheerful response.

“Trust me, I’ll find a way.” Stiles pokes his head out of the blankets, and narrows his eyes at the still faint sunlight wafting through Scott’s blinds.

“What time is is?” he asks, quietly.

“A little past eight,” his friend replies, then, worried, “are you... okay?”

“Yeah, why?” Stiles says absently, watching a dust mote swirling down from the ceiling fan.

“You just, you were talking in your sleep, dude. It sounded pretty intense.”

Stiles very determinedly avoids meeting his friend’s eyes.

“It was... it was nothing. I gotta go see Deaton, though, Saturday’s are my ‘Stiles tries really hard to do magic but fucks up every time’ days. You know. Party.”

Scott does that adorable thing with his eyebrows, and frowns slightly.

“Okay. Be careful. You know you can talk to me about anything, no matter what, right?”

Stiles smile weakly. 

“Yeah. Sure.”

 

 

v.

“Deaton?” Stiles calls cautiously as he pushes the door open. The familiar sound of the bell is vaguely reassuring in a way that Stiles doesn’t want to think about, because he only has room in his life for a few people that he cares enough about to trust, and he isn’t sure if he wants Deaton to be one of them.

The clinic is dark, darker than usual, and unease prickles in Stiles’ belly. Deaton always leaves the light on in front, even when the clinic is closed.

“Deaton?! Stiles calls again, moving cautiously through the gate into the back room, “You back here?” 

He pushes the door open slowly, slowly, and freezes. Inside the room, a tall figure is bent over Deaton’s crumpled body. The lights fizzle and spark. Stiles tries to remember how to breathe. Every muscle and nerve in his body is screaming at him to run, but he can’t leave Deaton there not knowing if his mentor’s alive or dead. A cracked noise leaks out of his throat before he can stop it, and the figure looks up.

“Oh, Stiles,” a female voice purrs, delightedly. “I’ve been waiting.”

A snap of her fingers, and the lights come on. Stiles blinks at the woman in front of him in shock. She’s tall, taller than Stiles, at least, with long dark hair and a gaunt, hungry face. There is something about her, a shimmer to her edges, like she’s a mirage or something. She’s terrifying.

“I figured you’d probably be stopping by,” she grins at him like a predator, “Let’s get a closer look at you, hm?”

The door slams shut behind him, and the woman closes in on him faster than he would have thought possible. She slams him back against the wall, his head connecting with a dull thud, and wraps long fingers around his throat. Everything’s a little fuzzy, and Stiles can’t get to the sharpie in his pocket when he’s pinned like this. He has a moment to wish helplessly that Deaton had taught him rune-less magic, and then the woman grabs his chin and forces him to meet her eyes.

“I am Cliodhna, Genim Stilinski. It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

This woman is frightening, yes, but the fear isn’t all consuming. Stiles is still relatively clear headed. Still, he has to ask-

“The- voice. In my- dreams.” he chokes, and the pressure on his windpipe eases a little, “The one who called me Annwyl. Was that you?”

Cliodhna’s green eyes widen, and her grip on him goes slack for a moment, then tightens.

“So. She has spoken to you, then...” the distant look in her eyes sharpens, and she glares back down at Stiles.

“No, Genim. The voice you heard was not mine. Still, that she spoke to you... she’s stronger than I realized-” she cuts herself off, and gives Stiles a wicked grin.

“Oops, silly me, there I go again, talking too much. We’ll meet again at Samhain, Genim Stilinski, on the Promised Day. But for now,” the green color fades from her eyes, and they swirl milky white, “What do you fear?”

Stiles wants to scream, feels the scream building in his vocal chords like a tidal wave, but before he can make a noise he is swept away into nothing.

 

 vi.

_His mother’s hand is thin, stroking his shaved head. She smells like chemicals and lemon soap._

_“I love you, Genim. You have no idea how much I love you.”_

_Stiles beams up at his mother._

_“I love you more, mom!”_

_She laughs, a weak sound, compared to the way she used to._

_“You’ll have to be very brave, soon, baby. You have to remember that you are special, so special. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”_

_“Kay.”_

_Stiles is too._

_Stiles has always been too._

_Too everything._

_Too loud._

_Too annoying._

_Too hyperactive, too ADHD, too weird, too challenging, too smart. Too._

_But not to his mother. To Claudia, Stiles is never too or not enough. He's perfect._

_“Genim.” his mother whispers. It echoes in his head, over and over. Stiles wants to plug his ears and curl up into a little ball and cry, but he can’t. This is just a memory. He is merely an observer._

_“Find your father for me, Genim? I want to say goodbye.”_

_“Okay, I will. I promise!”_

_And Stiles scampers off to find his father. But his father isn’t there. His father doesn’t come. Not when his mamma presses a kiss to his forehead, and whispers ‘be brave’. Not when her hand goes cold and stiff in his. Not when the machine next to her starts to make a funny noise, and the nurses come in and Ms. McCall comes in and picks Stiles up and carries him out and lets him sob against her shoulder._

_His father doesn’t come._

 

_Stiles floats in a sea of misery. He curls his hands into balls and presses his fingernails in until he bleeds, but it isn’t painful. Nothing can distract him from the inferno inside his head._

_“Stiles.”_

_A voice. It sounds familiar._

_“Here’s a joke,” Stiles mutters into the white, “A kid is diagnosed with ADHD, depression, and anxiety.”_

_He waits a little bit, for dramatic effect. The voice doesn’t reply._

_“That’s it,” Stiles explains, “That’s the joke. There isn’t really a punchline.”_

_He blinks, and everything around him tilts._

_“It is time to wake, Genim.”_

_The white drifts away, like Stiles had been sitting in the middle of a cloud, and now he is in a meadow, grass against his bare legs, a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. The unicorn is there, because of course it is, and it folds its long legs and lays down next to him on the grass._

_“Did I kill my mom?” Stiles whispers, afraid to vocalize the thought that had sat in his heart and clawed it to shreds for years. The unicorn looks at him with sad, dark eyes._

_“Wake up, Genim. You have no time to wallow in memory. Darkness has come, a darkness that you alone can light. Wake.”_

 

vii.

Stiles opens his eyes slow and heavy, and Deaton is leaning over him in worry. Stiles registers that he’s sprawled out on the floor of the clinic, legs and arms twisted in painful angles where he had apparently fallen, and the woman, Cliodhna, is gone.

“Good, you’re awake,” Deaton says grimly, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, “We have a problem.”

* * *


End file.
